Sunday, November 27, 2005
Trippy California-Nov. 27, 2005
Just returned from a whirlwind two weeks in California. The trip was particularly good to remind me of American things, good and bad.
There is nothing more American than the road trip. Even though ours was only LA-Fresno-San Fran, it was still invigorating. The varying smells – from LA’s exhaust and expensive perfume to Fresno’s agri-crap pungency to San Fran’s homeless urine and eucalyptus – transported me back to a familiar place.
Potholes! Either I’d forgotten how ill-maintained US roads are or Arnie somehow forgot to include the department of transportation on his list of offices to reform. But, regardless of the state of the roads, I would still prefer to drive alongside the likes of Californians who cruise along, for the most part, obeying all traffic laws – so unlike the horrific skills on display on the UAE’s pothole-free roads. I will say it here and now: The most dangerous aspect of life in the Middle East is the abhorrent driving. Even maneuvering a U-Haul truck some 300 miles was less panic-attack-inducing than my daily commute in Dubai.
Even in Los Angeles, which gets tagged as a car city, we reveled in pedestrian antics. Our hotel, the glamorous Motel 6 on Sunset Boulevard, offered the perfect location for exploring the streets of Hollywood on foot. After the it’s-for-your-own-good "cultural protection" offered by life in the Middle East, where one is not exposed to such things as ads for strips clubs or dirty T-shirt shops, (and much, much more that’s better off not mentioned), our newly virgin eyes were assaulted with all on offer. In one night we passed street performers, comedy clubs, live music venues, all packed with Hollywood wanna-bes who, on a bad night, are more talented than that riff-raff Dubai manages to book. In non-chain coffee shops we saw actors alongside crazy people alternately mouthing lines from their TV shows or just mumbling to themselves. It was hard to tell one from the other in the case of this guy: (http://edition.cnn.com/SHOWBIZ/TV/9909/01/tuesday.tv/mike.omalley.jpg), whom we observed practicing for “Yes, Dear.” At least he appeared to have a purpose; it was less clear with Shirley MacLaine (no photo necessary), whom we spotted later on Rodeo Drive in a purple track suit wandering aimlessly outside Armani, looking dazed and confused.
My mom, who joined us in our La-La Land adventure, thought it would be fun to drive around the Hollywood Hills and check out the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Upon whipping through the pristine roads, we spied a long black limo with the license plate “Hefner 1.” Knowing that the infamous Hugh Hefner does indeed live in LA, I yelled “That’s gotta be Hugh Hefner!” My mom then proceeds to follow the limo and only stops short of chasing it through the mansion gates it entered. Face flush, and foot still tapping the pedal, she turns to me and asks, “So, who’s Hugh Hefner?” Needless to say she was less than thrilled when I revealed that he’s probably the world’s most prolific pornographer.
OK, that was my bit of name-dropping, required after any visit to LA. Speaking of name-dropping, a pal of mine, a ‘struggling actor’ himself, made the day of one other ‘struggling actor’ from Germany. Earlier in the day he had bummed a cigarette from some film festival-goers. While exchanging pleasantries with the group, he overheard them gabbing about the arrival of a little-known German actor. While eating dinner later that day at the shi-shi Baha Fresh, we spotted the German in line with the rest of us punters getting a burrito. My pal walked up to him and said “Klaus?” “Klaus Bergen?” “Is that you?” The tall German’s eyes glowed and said, “Yes. It is. You know me?” To which my friend gushed in top boot-licking form about how much he loved the actor’s work, etc., etc. Klaus was blushing and smiling – until, confused, he asked my friend “Are you German?” “No, no, American,” says my friend. Only then did it occur to him to that all Klaus’s “werk” was in German. We skulked away.
Nearly as funny were the numerous Scientologists lined up and down along Sunset and Hollywood boulevards looking like Mormons offering IQ and personality tests. (Huh? Is this how Tom Cruise got roped in?) At one corner I nearly did a double-take when I spotted a “museum” dedicated to “revealing the scum that are psychiatrists.” There were suspicious characters behind the building unloading truckloads of who knows what? The all donned T-shirts with anti-psychiatry slogans. Across the street? You guessed it, the world HQ for the Church of Scientology.
On to the less-titillating, but much more beautiful San Francisco. This amazing city has more culture in one block than all of Dubai. Sad, but true. In one block of Polk Street, my old stomping ground, I passed the following shops: A clothing donation store where proceeds go to an AIDS foundation; three packed book stores with new and used titles, one shop was dedicated to New Age books; a Jewish deli; a Palestinian grocery; a vintage clothing store; a lingerie store; and a “smoking accessory” outlet.
I was quickly reminded of the city’s never-ending poverty problems when I was asked for spare change a dozen times. Instead of being annoyed like I used to be when I lived there, this time I actually doled out some money. One guy protested though when I accidentally gave him a dirham, which I mistook for a quarter. When I tried to exchange it, he was quite insulted. So I let him have it.
I spent most of my time with my treasured friends, soaking in as much of their lives as I could. With perfect weather, sunny and cool, we walked along the beach, and met some 30 dogs. (Yes, in the US they actually allow the mutts on the beach. The tradeoff I suppose is the less-than-white sands seen in these parts. Personally, I’d choose the dogs and dirty sand any time.) We explored SF’s famed gay neighborhood, the Castro, and we were treated to amazing food in amazing restaurants.
After the Air France flight, and then some 23 hours and one layover later, I emerged from Dubai International Airport around 11 pm, jumped in a cab and then got caught in a traffic jam.
There is nothing more American than the road trip. Even though ours was only LA-Fresno-San Fran, it was still invigorating. The varying smells – from LA’s exhaust and expensive perfume to Fresno’s agri-crap pungency to San Fran’s homeless urine and eucalyptus – transported me back to a familiar place.
Potholes! Either I’d forgotten how ill-maintained US roads are or Arnie somehow forgot to include the department of transportation on his list of offices to reform. But, regardless of the state of the roads, I would still prefer to drive alongside the likes of Californians who cruise along, for the most part, obeying all traffic laws – so unlike the horrific skills on display on the UAE’s pothole-free roads. I will say it here and now: The most dangerous aspect of life in the Middle East is the abhorrent driving. Even maneuvering a U-Haul truck some 300 miles was less panic-attack-inducing than my daily commute in Dubai.
Even in Los Angeles, which gets tagged as a car city, we reveled in pedestrian antics. Our hotel, the glamorous Motel 6 on Sunset Boulevard, offered the perfect location for exploring the streets of Hollywood on foot. After the it’s-for-your-own-good "cultural protection" offered by life in the Middle East, where one is not exposed to such things as ads for strips clubs or dirty T-shirt shops, (and much, much more that’s better off not mentioned), our newly virgin eyes were assaulted with all on offer. In one night we passed street performers, comedy clubs, live music venues, all packed with Hollywood wanna-bes who, on a bad night, are more talented than that riff-raff Dubai manages to book. In non-chain coffee shops we saw actors alongside crazy people alternately mouthing lines from their TV shows or just mumbling to themselves. It was hard to tell one from the other in the case of this guy: (http://edition.cnn.com/SHOWBIZ/TV/9909/01/tuesday.tv/mike.omalley.jpg), whom we observed practicing for “Yes, Dear.” At least he appeared to have a purpose; it was less clear with Shirley MacLaine (no photo necessary), whom we spotted later on Rodeo Drive in a purple track suit wandering aimlessly outside Armani, looking dazed and confused.
My mom, who joined us in our La-La Land adventure, thought it would be fun to drive around the Hollywood Hills and check out the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Upon whipping through the pristine roads, we spied a long black limo with the license plate “Hefner 1.” Knowing that the infamous Hugh Hefner does indeed live in LA, I yelled “That’s gotta be Hugh Hefner!” My mom then proceeds to follow the limo and only stops short of chasing it through the mansion gates it entered. Face flush, and foot still tapping the pedal, she turns to me and asks, “So, who’s Hugh Hefner?” Needless to say she was less than thrilled when I revealed that he’s probably the world’s most prolific pornographer.
OK, that was my bit of name-dropping, required after any visit to LA. Speaking of name-dropping, a pal of mine, a ‘struggling actor’ himself, made the day of one other ‘struggling actor’ from Germany. Earlier in the day he had bummed a cigarette from some film festival-goers. While exchanging pleasantries with the group, he overheard them gabbing about the arrival of a little-known German actor. While eating dinner later that day at the shi-shi Baha Fresh, we spotted the German in line with the rest of us punters getting a burrito. My pal walked up to him and said “Klaus?” “Klaus Bergen?” “Is that you?” The tall German’s eyes glowed and said, “Yes. It is. You know me?” To which my friend gushed in top boot-licking form about how much he loved the actor’s work, etc., etc. Klaus was blushing and smiling – until, confused, he asked my friend “Are you German?” “No, no, American,” says my friend. Only then did it occur to him to that all Klaus’s “werk” was in German. We skulked away.
Nearly as funny were the numerous Scientologists lined up and down along Sunset and Hollywood boulevards looking like Mormons offering IQ and personality tests. (Huh? Is this how Tom Cruise got roped in?) At one corner I nearly did a double-take when I spotted a “museum” dedicated to “revealing the scum that are psychiatrists.” There were suspicious characters behind the building unloading truckloads of who knows what? The all donned T-shirts with anti-psychiatry slogans. Across the street? You guessed it, the world HQ for the Church of Scientology.
On to the less-titillating, but much more beautiful San Francisco. This amazing city has more culture in one block than all of Dubai. Sad, but true. In one block of Polk Street, my old stomping ground, I passed the following shops: A clothing donation store where proceeds go to an AIDS foundation; three packed book stores with new and used titles, one shop was dedicated to New Age books; a Jewish deli; a Palestinian grocery; a vintage clothing store; a lingerie store; and a “smoking accessory” outlet.
I was quickly reminded of the city’s never-ending poverty problems when I was asked for spare change a dozen times. Instead of being annoyed like I used to be when I lived there, this time I actually doled out some money. One guy protested though when I accidentally gave him a dirham, which I mistook for a quarter. When I tried to exchange it, he was quite insulted. So I let him have it.
I spent most of my time with my treasured friends, soaking in as much of their lives as I could. With perfect weather, sunny and cool, we walked along the beach, and met some 30 dogs. (Yes, in the US they actually allow the mutts on the beach. The tradeoff I suppose is the less-than-white sands seen in these parts. Personally, I’d choose the dogs and dirty sand any time.) We explored SF’s famed gay neighborhood, the Castro, and we were treated to amazing food in amazing restaurants.
After the Air France flight, and then some 23 hours and one layover later, I emerged from Dubai International Airport around 11 pm, jumped in a cab and then got caught in a traffic jam.
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